


paint it red

by portraitofemmy



Series: Queliot Week 2019 [6]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Season/Series 01, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, BDSM, Gentle Dom Eliot Waugh, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Making Out, No Beast AU, Quentin Coldwater is a sub, Rimming, Safe Sane and Consensual, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 16:26:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19321837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portraitofemmy/pseuds/portraitofemmy
Summary: "This isn't a hazing, but I'm happy to spank and shave you if your little heart is set on it."Eliot's careless drawl is met with eye rolls and muttering from most of the first year class, which he expects. He is happy to spank or shave anyone who asks him nicely, but he doesn't exactly expect any of them to take him up on it. What he doesn't expect is the burning red blush or look of interest on Quentin Coldwater's face.Queliot Week Day 6- Alternative Timeline





	paint it red

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in a timeline where there is no Beast, and Julia is at Brakebills. Since there’s no Jane intervening to push people together, and Julia’s there and also Eliot and Margo consume a lot of attention, we’re just going to assume that Quentin and Alice would never have come together on their own. Also there is no Mike, since there is no Beast.
> 
> That said, this fic has like... no external plot whatsoever, and is entirely inspired by [this gifset](https://coldwaughtered.tumblr.com/post/185186234601) made by the lovely [coldwaughtered](https://coldwaughtered.tumblr.com) so... enjoy some kink!
> 
> Thanks as ever to the wonderful [saltandpepperbox](https://saltandpepperbox.tumblr.com/) for being my sounding block and fandom buddy.

"This isn't a hazing, but I'm happy to spank and shave you if your little heart is set on it." 

Eliot's careless drawl is met with eye rolls and muttering from most of the first year class, which he expects. He is happy to spank or shave anyone who asks him nicely, but he doesn't exactly expect any of them to take him up on it. What he doesn't expect is the burning red blush or look of interest on Quentin Coldwater's face. 

_Oh_ , Eliot thinks to himself, slow smirk spread across his face. _Oh Quentin. I knew there was a reason you're my favorite._

Of course, there's nothing he can _do_ about it any time soon. With most of the third year class gone, Fogg had grudgingly allowed Eliot and Margo to oversee the trials, and they had gone all out. Everything in their power was done to create the illusion that they had presided over this event hundreds of times, rather than being the confused and overwhelmed first year's themselves, last year. How lucky that Eliot literally had a vest for every occasion. 

_Please don't flunk out of here before I get to spank you,_ Eliot thinks, watching Quentin and Penny bicker across the exam hall. None of it shows on his face, of course, but he remembers how hard this test is. He and Margo only got through it because he'd been able to telekinetically reposition some of the reflective surfaces in the room so they could steal bits of the answers from their classmates. This portion of the trails really was about how well you could cheat. And for Q and Penny, the answer was apparently 'very well.' Less so for the other member of the Horny Chupacabras, but that was fine. Literally no one was going to miss that asshole. 

The teamwork portion of the trails was usually broken down by discipline, but there were no other first year psychic students in this cohort, so Margo and Eliot where given Penny to supervise, along with the rest of the physical kids. Quentin's best friend, the slight little brown haired girl, was shunted off to do the rest of her trails with the healing students, because she was also the only one of her discipline in this cohort. For some reason this year's first year class seemed very big on herbalism. Eliot blamed the legalization of weed in so many states, with great delight and alacrity. 

It was hilarious watching Alice Quinn try to fell a tree with rope, but the true highlight of the entire event was Quentin Coldwater lassoing himself a horse. "Junior cowboy camp," he muttered to his classmates, and oh. If the spanking worked out well, Eliot was going to _have_ to get him a pair of assless chaps. 

Like, legally, he was honor bound to do that. 

Once it was secrets time, the firsties were officially out of their hands. Eliot really, really didn't envy them this. Secret had been the thing that almost cost him his time at Brakebills. It had gotten him his Bambi, though, so he considered it a win, all in all. 

Margo, when Eliot explains his new plans in regards to Quentin's cute little ass, grins at him. "It's always the quiet ones, the ones you least expect." 

Eliot thinks of Quentin's big brown eyes and wide open mouth, stumbling across the lawn towards him on the first day. "Well," he hedges, giving Margo a significant look. "It's not _that_ unexpected." 

Her laugh is one of his favorite sounds. 

"So how was Mayakovsky?" Eliot asks once Quentin and the rest of his cohort stumble back towards the Physical Kids Cottage. It's quiet, with Bambi off to Ibiza. Eliot, who'd been thinking about Quentin for two weeks straight, had elected not to go. If he was wrong about this and Quentin wasn't interested, he could always catch up to her later. In the meantime, he’s set up with a grill and some cocktails, enjoying the end of the first semester lull. "Creepy as ever?" 

"Yeah, he's like. Super weird," Quentin mutters, accepting the cocktail Eliot passes off to him, still wearing his Brakebills South whites. "I mostly hung around with Julia and he tried to make us fuck like... more than once. I think he did something to Penny and Kady, because they're being weird as fuck now." 

"Sounds about right," Eliot sighs, giving Quentin an assessing look. The implication was that he _hadn't_ fucked the little Knowledge girl, which was possibly because they'd been friends since they were in diapers, but also was very helpful in not derailing Eliot's plans for him. “Well, the cottage should be pretty quiet, most people are gone for break. Are you staying?”

“Oh, I was um. I was going too?” Quentin half-asks, like if Eliot tells him no he’ll trot back off to wherever the fuck until January. 

“Excellent,” Eliot says definitively, because he really doesn’t want Quentin trotting anywhere but up to his bedroom, and that seems a bit forward, even for him. “You like pork? You can help me eat this.”

Which is how he ends up with a freshly showered Quentin perched on the low stone wall nearby, babbling an account of his time in the frozen tundra. He’s really awfully cute, and he keeps looking at Eliot like he can’t quite believe he has Eliot’s attention. It’s doing amazing things for Eliot’s ego, honestly, but it’s a little silly. Quentin’s had his attention for months. He just doesn’t seem to know what to _do_ with it. Well. Eliot’s here to help him out with that. He has a _plan._

That plan involves a bottle of wine, red because Quentin prefers red. Quentin will drink whatever he’s handed, but he always goes for red wine if he’s helping himself, and Eliot notices these things. So he’s got a not-half-bad bottle of wine and some very good pork and rice pilaf cooking in the kitchen, and honestly, okay, maybe Eliot’s a farm boy in his heart but _nothing got to a man faster than food, okay._

The wine does it’s job and by the time they retreat into the Cottage to escape the chill of the night, Quentin’s loose enough to be giggly, swaying into Eliot’s arms as Eliot uses a simple flip of telekinesis to open the cottage door from the inside.

“You’re so good a magic,” Quentin mutters, looking up at Eliot with his big fucking eyes, and Jesus he’s close enough that Eliot can feel his breathe. Eliot wants to _devour_ him. “Did I tell you Mayakovsky electrocuted me?”

“You did,” Eliot says fondly, patting Quentin on his dear little head. “Don’t feel bad, we all know you’re not psychic.”

“Definitely not,” Quentin sighs, settling into the couch by the stairs and making grabby hands for the wine. Eliot, who’s feeling nicely warm but not as loose as Quentin, pours him glass and tops up his own.

He levels Quentin with an assessing looking. “Quentin, darling,” he says lightly, and grins as a Q’s eyes go sharp, clocking in on him. “We’re friends, right?”

“I– Yes?” 

“So, friends don’t lie to each other. Tell me the truth. What were you thinking when I said I’d spank or shave you if you heart was set on it?” The blush that burns across Quentin’s face is visible even under the flush of alcohol. He looks around, like he’s expecting someone else to jump out with a camera and catch him off guard. Eliot, who likes making Quentin blush but doesn’t want to actively upset him, feels a little bad. “It’s just us here, Q, don’t worry. Kady went off with Penny and Alice never came back from the library.”

“Oh,” Quentin mutters, then looks down into the glass in his hand. He swirls the liquid around, then looks up at Eliot. “Why are you asking?”

“Curiosity?” Eliot deflects, because that’s definitely part of it, but Quentin can read the half-truth on his face, somehow. It’s unnerving sometimes, that Quentin can read him so well.

“If you’re going to make fun of me–”

“No,” Eliot cuts him off, sitting up straighter, because no. Just no. “No, that’s not it. I would never do that.”

“You make fun of people all the time,” Quentin points out, and well. _But not you._

“You’re not people,” Eliot says, seriously, and watches Quentin’s eyes train back on him. “I might tease you about a sweater or taking yourself too seriously, but I’m never going to make fun of you for– things you like, or something you’re into. I’m the last person in the world with any ground to stand on in terms of kink-shaming anyone, anyway.”

“Did you mean it?” Quentin asks. He’s looking at Eliot with something approaching naked fascination on his face, and Eliot’s stomach swoops in excitement.

“Yes,” He says clearly, because well. He had. Then admends. “Depends on the person, if I’m compatible with them, if I can trust them and they can trust me. But I’ve done it before, and I like it.”

“You’ve...” Quentin stalls out, eyes wide and fixed on Eliot, who grins at him. 

“Spanked someone? Yes. More than once. Haven’t shaved anyone before, but I’m all up for new experiences if that’s what you were perking up about.”

“No, I–” Quentin cuts himself off, and coughs a little, looking away then darting his eyes back to Eliot. Eager beaver, this one. “That wasn’t what...”

“What you wanted?” Eliot supplies, and watches Quentin swallow, then nod. “Have you ever done any impact play before?”

“I– No? I didn’t even know it was called that.” 

It’s the answer Eliot expects, and he smiles reassuringly. “Welcome to the world of kink, little Q. We’ve got a lot of fancy clinical names we use when we talk about this stuff so we don’t get too worked up about it beforehand.”

Quentin, who’s experience with kink is presumably limited to PornHub and maybe a bitey girlfriend, gives Eliot a lost look. “I don’t– I feel like I’m in over my head, and I have no idea when I got in the pool.”

“It’s okay,” Eliot reassures him, and he means it. Quentin wouldn’t be the first boy who used Eliot to satisfy curiosity, and he’s fine with that. “I’m not trying to scare you off.”

“I think you’re showing off a little,” Quentin says dryly, and he angles his body towards Eliot, giving him a pointed look. “You want me to know you know what you’re doing.”

Right. Because Quentin isn’t just a random curious boy. He’s Eliot’s friend. He’s one of _Eliot’s people_. That has the potential to make things– so much more complicated. _Or so much better_ , whispers the hungry little part of his brain that is absolutely starving to be _known,_ but he ignores it. Stuffs it behind a wall. “Maybe,” he admits, turning towards Quentin to match him. “Me knowing what I’m doing is probably safer, in this situation.”

“And you like it?” Quentin asks, rapidly becoming less shy and more curious. That was a fascinating twist, makes Eliot want to poke at him a little more.

“I like what you like, baby,” He says lightly, reaching out to brush his fingers against Quentin’s knee, warm through his blue jeans. He jumps a little, but doesn’t flinch, still looking at Eliot curiously. “I love taking people apart how they need to be taken apart. For some people that’s a good fuck, and for some people that’s being teased until they’re begging, and for some people that’s being spanked until they cry. As long as it’s cathartic and good, and they’re happy after, I’m happy after.”

“You said compatible, before,” Quentin says, eyes dark and fixed on Eliot. “What did you mean? What would make someone compatible?”

“Well,” Eliot starts carefully. “Mutual attraction is a good starting place. Similar kinks is helpful, even if not everything lines up. Trust is a big one, someone I trust will stop me if I’m going too far, or will let me stop if I need too.”

“You think we’re compatible?” Quentin asks, all attentive fascination and oh, he’s dangerous. Eliot had no idea what he was walking into, because Quentin shy and blushing was one thing but Quentin serious and thoughtful was _something else_. His eyes are hot, and he’s still a little flushed, but he’s smiling a little and he keeps looking at Eliot’s mouth. _Oh baby, I think we just might be._

“Come here,” Eliot says, letting authority slide easily into his voice. Quentin gives him an indulgent little roll of his eyes, and Eliot grins because he _loves that_ , loves that Quentin’s a brat, sassy and _himself_ even now. But he gamely scoots a little closer, enough that his knee is touching the one Eliot has folded on the couch. Eliot reaches out to touch him fondly, brush his fingertips against the point of Quentin’s jaw, sweep up to tuck his hair behind his ear. “Good boy.”

Quentin makes a strangled little sound, and the blush is back, painting his cheekbones scarlet. “I just moved over like a foot,” he deflects, looking away, and oh, Q. If that’s something he needs, Eliot can give him that too. _So compatible._

“Here’s what I’m thinking,” Eliot says calmly, with the same casual authority that makes Quentin’s eyes snap right back to his face, wide and attentive. “I got you drunk so we could talk about this without you spontaneously combusting, but I don’t play drunk. So how about we test that compatibility and make out for a while? No hands under clothes, no touching dicks, no one gets off until they’re alone. Sound like good rules?”

“Sure. No one gets off until after. And then?” Quentin’s probably aiming for a joke, but oh, he misses a little, and Eliot can imagine it, telling him he can’t come until Eliot gets to do it himself. Except– that is _heavy_ play, and not the kind of thing either of them are in the space to consent to right now.

“Then I hope you have a truly fantastic orgasm thinking about my mouth, baby. Or a really nice cold shower. Whatever you want.”

Quentin nods, turning his nose in toward Eliot’s wrist a little. It pushes his head a little more into Eliot’s hand, and he grins indulgently, sliding his fingers through Quentin’s soft hair. _Oh,_ Eliot’s so fucking fond of him, already, and they haven’t even–

“Come here,” Eliot says again, and this time Quentin comes all the way, climbs into Eliot’s lap and settles with his ass on Eliot’s thighs. It’s a good position, for the rules Eliot had given him, not straddling Eliot but with his knees together and tucked up near Eliot’s hip, so he can tuck into the corner of the couch with Eliot and settle into his arms. Eliot wraps his arms around Q easily, and oh, he’s so small, you can tell it looking at him but like this Eliot can really feel it. 

“Hey,” he mutters, a goofy grin on his face, and Eliot’s so charmed by him it’s probably a bad sign.

“Hey,” Eliot returns fondly, settling one hand warmly on Quentin’s outer thigh, cradling the back of his neck with the other. Their faces are so close together, and he can feel the tension pulled taught, the anticipation between them is _delicious._ “You’re very, very good at taking directions. I appreciate that.”

“You’re good at giving them,” Quentin says breathlessly, generously, and his eyes keep flicking down to Eliot’s mouth. “I’m going to kiss you now.”

Eliot’s halfway to a laugh when he does, so it’s a little off center, a little sloppy. Eliot corrects it easily, and Quentin gives up control so naturally, _oh,_ he’s so– open and inviting and warm. Eliot’s done this enough to know the difference between someone forcing submission and someone who yields on instinct, and Quentin is definitely the latter. He shivers in Eliot’s arms and tips his mouth open and curls his fingers into the collar of Eliot’s shirt. Everything about him is saying _take me, taste me, show me how you want me to be so I can be that for you._

“Oh, baby, we are so compatible,” Eliot whispers, when he pulls back for air, and Quentin shivers a little.

“You’re really good at that,” he pants, a little stunned, and Eliot laughs fondly, so _fucking fond_ , what a good call this was. 

When he goes back in for another kiss, Quentin meets him. He may be letting Eliot drive the train, but he’s by no means a passive passenger. He touches Eliot like he can’t believe he’s allowed to, then like it’s his personal mission to figure out where Eliot likes to be touched. Responsive when Eliot does something he likes, Quentin’s so honest about everything he’s feeling. 

They make out little teenagers for what feels like hours, honestly. Quentin is very good about following Eliot’s rules, but he takes advantage of all skin that isn’t currently under clothes, spends about a decade just rubbing his palms along the exposed skin of Eliot’s forearms. It’s driving him crazy, honestly, making it very hard to remember why he can’t just reach down and get his hand between Q’s legs, rub him through his jeans until he just fucking– comes in his pants, gives Eliot all his wonderful soft little sounds.

But Q’s being so good, so Eliot needs to be too. It’s on him to start winding them down, and he does so carefully, sliding his own need back under control and gentling Q back away from the edge. They’re both still hard, he’s very aware of it, but they settle into soft, lazy kiss. Gentle presses of lips that stick more that they slide, until Quentin’s just half nuzzling at his face, sweet and calm.

“How do you feel?” Eliot asks, because he needs too, because it’s his job, and also because he wants with that same hungry ache to know that it’s _good. Is it as good for you?_

“Sparkly,” Quentin responds, and Eliot only manages to avoid laughing because he doesn’t want Q to think he’s being laughed at. His eyes are blown, when Eliot looks at him, but he also looks present and grounded. “Good. I can’t imagine what sex with you would be like if making out feels like _this._ ”

Eliot grins at him, petting through his hair. “If you still want to find out when you’re sober, let me know, okay?”

“I will,” Quentin says firmly, and Eliot’s not sure if he means he will want to, or will let him know. Maybe both. 

They part ways for the evening with a soft kiss and a good night, and Eliot really does have a truly spectacular orgasm thinking about Quentin’s mouth. He hopes, selfishly, that Q does too.

_

He crosses paths with Quentin the next day, on his way out to presumably nerd it up with his Knowledge bestie. Eliot’s prepared to hold their kisses as a treasured memory, something to break out in private moments and never think of at any other point. But Quentin surprises him by being incredibly fucking brave, stopping and switching his path out of the Cottage so he walks by Eliot on the window seat.

“So yeah, um. I’m sober, and I still want to. If you do,” he says, softly, but there’s a weird intensity about him, eyes wide and emphatic. Oh, he’s such a fascinating person, Eliot feels inexplicably drawn to him, always has.

“I still want to,” Eliot confirms, and smiles a little as some of that tension bleeds out of Quentin’s frame.

“Oh, okay. Good,” he grins, making and aborted gesture like he’s going to go in and kiss Eliot then thinks better of it. Eliot rolls his eyes, because are you _kidding me_? If Quentin’s suddenly down to hand out kisses, Eliot will take them, happily. He’s gotta stretch up a little, because sitting like this with Quentin standing, Q is actually taller. But Quentin meets him halfway, eagerly, and the soft kiss tastes like peppermint toothpaste.

“Tomorrow night?” Eliot suggests once Quentin draws back, brushing his thumb against Q’s cheek. He hadn’t shaved this morning, and there’s just a hint of scratch to him. Eliot likes it.

“Yeah, okay, I– I’m supposed to help Julia with research tonight, anyway. So.”

“Then you’d better get going,” Eliot teases fondly, and makes a point of staring at Quentin’s ass as he leaves. 

The extra time is helpful, gives Eliot a chance to get ready, do some personal grooming and clean his bedroom. Not that Quentin is likely to be scared off by piles of books or rough cuticles, but it’s grounding for Eliot to do. Being in control of himself and his environment gets him in the right headspace for this kind of play, and it also means he can make sure there’s water bottles and juice boxes and arnica cream all close at hand. The question of penetrative sex had never even come up in their conversation, but he checks the dates on all his condoms anyway, just to be safe. It feels like _taking care of Q_ , and he’s already fucking settling into it, Jesus.

_I hope he likes this_ , Eliot thinks desperately, as he shaves his face for the second time, just to make sure he’s gotten every stray hair. _It would to suck to get to taste this and then lose it._

The start to the evening is a little odd, since they do live in the same house. It’s not like he has to go _pick Q up_ anywhere. But Quentin knocks on his door around 8pm, and when Eliot opens it for him he’s smiling. Nervous, but smiling.

“Think I was going to chicken out?” He teases, stepping into Eliot’s room, and Eliot just. Drinks him in, looks his fill because he’s allowed to right now. Quentin’s wearing a black button up and black jeans, which is not uncommon for him, but he’s barefoot which makes him look– oddly vulnerable, which is just. Extremely exciting, honestly. 

“No, I really didn’t,” Eliot says honestly, because he’s already come to terms with the fact that Quentin is about a million times braver than he is. Quentin’s clearly made some effort for tonight, his hair soft and freshly washed, and he’s shaved too, though not as carefully as Eliot maybe. But he’s here, in his button down all cleaned up, like this is a _date_ , like he wanted to look _pretty_. Eliot feels overwhelmingly fond of him, possessive and protective. _Mine to touch, tonight._

He indulges himself in a kiss, cupping Quentin’s neck in his hands for one sweet slide of lips. He means it to be a _hello_ , but Quentin just _melts_ into him like they’re jumping into the main event right away. 

Eliot pulls away with a soft chuckle, tightening his rip on Quentin’s neck because he’s looking a little like he might fall over. “Let’s go over the rules for tonight, yeah?” He suggests, steering Q over to sit close to him on the bed so they can talk. 

“Please don’t tell me I’m not allowed to come, I’ve jerked off like 4 times thinking about this,” Quentin whines a little, swaying towards Eliot even now. 

Eliot swallows, trying very hard not to think too much about that.

“You can come tonight, baby. Though, you’re making me want to make you ask permission first.” Quention makes a hot little sound, but he also looks a little overwhelmed, so, okay. First kink experience, calm down. Now’s not the time to make him call you Daddy. “Come whenever you need to, Q, orgasm play is heavier shit than we’re getting into tonight.”

“But you like that?” Quentin asks, a little breathless, and _oh,_ Eliot thinks. _Oh, baby, you’re making me think I’d like it a lot._

“I told you,” Eliot murmurs fondly, and presses his thumb into the sweet swell of Quentin’s lower lip. “I like what you like. If giving me that level of control over you does it for you, then _hell yeah_ , baby boy, I like it.”

“I don’t know if it would,” Quentin says, twitching nervously. “I don’t even know if I’m going to like this or not.”

_Let me help you find out, I want to show you everything._ Eliot swallows it down, and his sudden rush of nerves along with it. _Stay in the moment_ , he reminds himself, brushing his thumb back and forth across the edge of Quentin’s mouth. “Do you trust me?” he asks softly, because that’s really the most important thing right now.

Quentin’s response is easy, honest, with no hesitation. “Yeah, I do,” he says, and he _sounds_ sincere, meets Eliot’s gaze head on. _Trust._

“Okay,” Eliot agrees, shivering a little at the heat in Quentin’s gaze. “Then here are the rules: You need to stop, you say ‘stop’ or ‘no’ or ‘get off me, dickhead’. We’re not playing any fancy consent games, so you don’t need a safeword. They’re hard to remember if you’re not in the habit, so if you’re done? Tell me. You start feeling overwhelmed, or like you’re getting lost and you don’t like it, say ‘wait’ or ‘pause.’ I’m going to verbally check-in with you every so often, and if you can’t answer then _I’m_ going to stop, because I’m not comfortable pushing you that far your first time around. Sound good so far?”

Quentin, poor little Q, looks a little overwhelmed again, but also fiercely determined. “Say stop if I need to stop. Say pause if I need to pause. Okay. Do you have a safeword?”

“Yeah,” Eliot grins, relaxed, trailing his fingers down to Quentin’s collarbones. “It’s ‘petrichor.’ If for some reason I get too locked in and you can’t get to me any other way, that’ll pull me out.”

“‘Petrichor’?” Q repeats, eyes glinting with suppressed laughter. “Pretentious much?”

“Hey, it’s a word that never fucking comes up during sex, that’s the whole point,” Eliot replies, and when Quentin laughs, Eliot’s heart does something big and complicated. “That’s part of the reason I was suggesting we forgo them for now.”

“Okay, okay,” Q agrees, swaying a little into Eliot’s hands. “Stop means stop, pause means pause. ‘Petrichor’ if nothing else works. I got it. Any other rules.”

“That’s pretty much it for me, baby. Any boundaries you want to put in place?”

Q’s quiet for a minute, too quiet maybe, long enough for Eliot to wonder what he’s chewing on. “Just like– Don’t make me feel like you’d rather be with someone else, yeah?”

There’s a moment of blinding confusion, where Eliot wonders where the fuck that came from. Who in Quentin’s sexual past was making him feel like they’d rather be with someone else when they were with him? But– that’s not the point. It didn’t matter why. “Of course,” Eliot says calmly, cradling Quentin’s neck in his palm, tilting a little until Quentin’s looking at him. “I’m with you right now because you’re exactly the person I want to be with. I promise not to make you feel otherwise. Anything else?”

“No,” Quentin breathes, and then rushes on, “Can you maybe like– pull my hair some? I– That’s not a boundary, but I– I dunno.”

“Oh, Baby Q,” Eliot grins, sliding his fingers against Quentin’s scalp, just to tease. “I can definitely make that happen.”

Quentin’s face tips up, clearly asking for a kiss, and who is Eliot to deny him, really? Warm and slow and dirty, it’s so _good_ , kissing Quentin is so fucking good. His hands flutter around with nervous energy, and Eliot is seized with the impulse to pin him down, pin his hands so he can’t move them. But that’s– also maybe a bit much for a first time, and besides, it’s nice to feel Q’s hands petting at his hair.

“Your hair’s so soft,” Quentin murmurs against Eliot’s lips, distracted, and Eliot laughs like he hadn’t gone to extra lengths to make himself nice to touch tonight.

Getting Q out of his clothes is a process, mostly because he’s really fucking squirmy about it. He can’t seem to stop trying to push closer to Eliot, but at the same time completely unable to take what he wants, which just leaves him half-climbing into Eliot’s lap with little abortive whines while Eliot tries to get his shirt off.

“Hey,” Eliot says, and the authority slips into his voice without him even reaching for it, like that’s just who he is in this moment. It _is_ who he is, in this moment. He grips Quentin by the scruff of the neck and watches him freeze, fascinated. “Trust me to get you where you need to be, Q.”

“Okay,” Quentin pants, looking at Eliot with such a naked look of trust it makes Eliot’s head spins. He settles, sinking into himself as he lets Eliot manhandle him out of his clothes. Pliant and easy, he settles naked into Eliot’s lap, dick swaying heavy and half-hard between his legs but he makes no attempt to reach for it.

“Good boy,” Eliot whispers, running his mouth off because it’s easy for him and helps him deal with being _looked at like this_. “See, isn’t it better when you let me do the work?”

“Yes,” Quentin agrees, easy, settling his arms around Eliot’s shoulders. Like this the fine fabric of Eliot’s shirt must be rubbing against his nipples, and _oh_. Eliot had been planning to get naked, but now that he has this he wants to keep it, Quentin naked and vulnerable while Eliot’s all put together.

“I’m going to keep my clothes on, for now,” He murmurs against Quentin’s lips, feels Quentin shiver against him a little. “Good or pause?”

“Good,” Quentin says, immediately. _So fucking compatible_ , Jesus. 

He slides both hands down Quentin’s back, feeling his smooth skin and the play of light muscle under it. Q shivers when Eliot’s hands reach the small of his back, and he lingers there for a moment, trading another hungry kiss as he teases just a little. Q squirms just a little when Eliot finally slides his hands down to cup his ass, work his palms into the skin. It’s a fucking good ass, Jesus, Eliot cannot _wait_ to turn it red. With that in mind, he pulls one palm back to smack lightly, barely enough to make a sound over their kissing, but Quentin _jumps_ , then _moans_ , fingers digging into Eliot’s shoulders.

“Get on your stomach on the bed,” Eliot instructs, fondly, because he wants to be able to _see this_ , fuck. Quentin scrambles to do as he’s told, so fucking eager he almost eats shit in the process, but Eliot catches him in time. “Careful, baby, a trip to the ER is definitely going to put a cramp in my style tonight.”

“Sorry,” Quentin mutters carelessly, clearly not sorry at all as he all but flops down on the bed, wiggling his ass a little. Eliot’s so fucking _fond_ of him, what a good boy he’s being. 

The crotch of Eliot’s trousers pulls tight across his own hard-on as he moves to straddle Quentin’s thighs, but the pinch of it is a welcome reminder of where Eliot’s brain should be at right now. He takes his own hunger and puts it in a box and puts the box on a shelf and ignores it, focusing instead on all of Quentin’s pale skin stretched out before him. Reaching forward, he gets two handfuls of ass, squeezing just to watch Q squirm.

“I’m gonna warm you up a little,” Eliot tells him, because the anticipation might be half the fun, but Quentin doesn’t know that yet. “Remember how to make me stop?”

“Tell you to fuck off,” Quentin sasses back, and Eliot grins, draws his right hand back and smacks Quentin’s ass for his trouble. It’s still light, no real weight behind it, but the open palm rings out around the room and Quentin swears, fists going tight in Eliot’s bed spread. 

“Good boy,” Eliot murmurs, just to watch Quentin melt under the praise. God, that’s addictive. 

He does as he’d said, sets about warming Quentin’s cute little ass up with light smacks, open palmed and more meant to sting more than hurt anywhere deep. Rubbing his hands over the skin in between hits draws it out, keeps Quentin’s nerves sensitive and responsive. Reading Quentin’s body language is fascinating, the way he flinches from the hit and then presses back into Eliot’s hands, oh he _does like this_. Eliot can tell it’s doing something for him on a deeper level, because he’s not squirming so much anymore, just moving with Eliot’s hands. Briefly, Eliot wishes he could _see,_ could track the blissed out look on Quentin’s face as he experiences this for the first time, but well. You can’t have it all.

“How are you doing, baby boy?” Eliot asks, checking in, once his own palms have started to tingle from the warm up. 

“So good,” Quentin mutters back, and oh, he sounds _high_ , Eliot thinks, eleated. Oh, little Q, what a delight to get to give you this.

“Good,” Eliot mutters, pushing his warm palms up to Quentin’s lower back for a moment, just to watch him arch into it. Then he brings his left hand down _hard_ on Quentin’s ass, a real smack with some actual weight behind it. 

Quentin cries out, loud and carefree, and Eliot spares a moment to be grateful for the silencing spells on his door. This wasn’t for the whole cottage to hear, this was just for _him_. He slides into it, the rhythm of it settling into his body as he sets out to paint Quentin’s ass red. Slowly the rest of the world falls away, and all that exists in his brain is the rhythm of his hands and Quentin’s body language. He’s acutely aware of every slap, of what Quentin pushes into and what he shys away from. There’s nothing else but this, nothing else besides what he can do to Q, what he can give to him. 

He’s locked in enough to tell the exact moment the a hit starts to shade from good pain into _too much_ , and he pauses before Quentin can even get a chance to ask him to, moving his stinging palms to rub at Quentin’s sides instead. “Okay, baby Q?” He asks, pushing to hover up over Quentin’s back, so he can see his face.

Q twist a little to meet his eyes, and fuck, there are silent tears leaking out of him but when he meets Eliot’s eyes, all Eliot can see there is adoration. _Fuck_ , his pupils are _blown_ , he’s so fucking high. “Good,” he says, soft, and Eliot might be worried he’s pushed to much except then Quentin smiles. “I trust you.”

Fuck.

Shit.

_Fucking shit_.

“You’re being so fucking good for me, Q,” Eliot murmurs, leanding into brush as of kiss against what he can reach of Quentin’s mouth. “You’re so fucking good. Are you done now?”

Quentin makes a little noise, soft and hurt, like the idea of Eliot not touching him is physically painful to him, more than the spanking had been. “Will you fuck me?” He asks, still so soft and high, but he seems grounded enough to know what he’s asking for. “I want you to fuck me.”

“You sure?” Eliot asks, tamping down his own excitement, because Quentin’s ass is radiating heat, and fuck, he really wants to get his dick in there, but. “It’s going to hurt, baby, I really worked you over.”

“Please,” Quentin whispers, and Eliot wants to–

– fucking–

– _worship him_.

“Okay,” he murmurs, and kisses his way down Quentin’s back, until he can rub his face against Quentin’s burning ass and part his cheeks. He’d made sure his face was smooth for a reason, after all. 

The sound Quentin makes at the first touch of his tongue is going to haunt Eliot for the rest of his _life_. He works Q over slowly and thoroughly, settling him into the rhythm of pleasure to accompany the pain of Eliot’s hands massaging his abused skin. He seems absolutely wrecked by it, when Eliot pulls away long enough to telekinetically pull lube and condoms over to himself. But Q’s so fucking earger, and opens for Eliot’s fingers like he’s done this before. Still locked into it, Eliot’s head swims with possessiveness, and he wants to be better than anyone Q’s had before, to fuck the thoughts of past lovers right out of him.

“So good for me,” he murmurs, three fingers deep, and Quentin _moans_. Eliot can feel how much he likes it, the praise, the way he clenches a little and rides back. “I’m going to fuck you now. Let’s get you up on all fours.”

“Yeah,” Quentin pants, face grinding into the bed, and Eliot thinks he’s maybe still crying a little but it’s hard to tell through the sweat on his face.

Eliot guides him back up into his knees, and he hisses as the new position stretches the skin on his ass. “Okay?” Eliot checks in, palming Q’s hot skin, rubbing to soothe, and Quentin nods. Eliot’s still got his fucking clothes on, is definitely sweating through his shirt at the workout from the spanking, but he doesn’t– Doesn’t want to take them off, not when Quentin is so fucking soft and vulnerable and naked before him and Eliot feels _powerful_ –

So he just undoes his belt and fly and pulls his cock out. It’s an incredible relief, after all this time, and he sighs, working his hand over himself to take the edge off a little bit. Condoms and lube go on easily, and in mere heartbeats he’s pushing forward, sinking into Quentin’s perfect tight little body. His worked over ass is radiating heat, and the open flaps of Eliot’s trousers scrape against the sensitive skin when he bottoms out. 

Quentin is definitely crying again, but he’s also pushing back, and panting “God, _Eliot, Eliot, please_ ,” so Eliot just– sinks in further, into his headspace and into Quentin’s body. He tips forward until he can wrap an arm around Quentin’s stomach, kiss his shoulder blades and really _fuck_. It’s not going to last, Quentin’s too overwhelmed on sensation, and Eliot’s been ignoring his own need for too long for it not to surge up with a vengeance.

It’s not going to last, but it’s _so good_ , Eliot doesn’t even fucking care. Q’s cock is wet with precome when Eliot works his hand down to it, and he makes the most shocked little sound, _Eliot wants to bite him_. Instinct, impulse makes him rake his fingernails lightly over abused skin on Q’s ass, and he sobs, “Please, please, please.”

“Yeah,” Eliot agrees, half-mindless. “Come on, little Q, I know you want to come.”

This wasn’t supposed to be a part of their game, but it comes naturally, and so does Quentin, shuddering apart in Eliot’s arms with a sob. Eliot follows him over the edge a handful of heartbeats later, orgasm ripping through him like a blaze of fire. 

Quentin goes utterly boneless after, still crying softly, and it’s only experience that keeps Eliot up, keeps him supporting Quentin’s dead weight long enough to ease himself free and lower Q to the bed. He strips the condom and his clothes quickly and efficiently, as everything in him is _screaming_ for skin on skin contact. Quentin curls into him when Eliot settles down onto the bed, scooping him up and settling him close.

“I’m so proud of you,” Eliot whispers into the damp hair at Quentin’s temple, cradling him as close as physically possible. “You did so good, Q, you took everything I gave you.” Quentin shivers, tears leaking against Eliot’s chest, and Eliot just holds him tight, murmuring praise and assurance. 

He quiets as he comes back to himself, but he doesn’t draw away or curl in on himself. If anything, Quentin _melts_ , going boneless and soft, touching Eliot’s skin with a reverence that makes his head spin. 

“How are you feeling?” Eliot asks, and he knows he’s still a little locked in himself, can’t really think about anything that isn’t Q right now, but that’s okay. Q deserves to be thought about. “I mean both physically and emotionally.”

“Sore,” Quentin whispers, and his voice cracks from how vocal he’s been. _Fuck_ , Eliot loves that. “I feel good, though. I’ve never– I’ve never felt like that, El.”

“Did you like it?” Eliot wonders aloud, because yeah, he hadn’t really thought to warn Q about that, didn’t expect him to sink into it so much.

“Yes,” Quentin whisper, tucking his top arm up between their chest and snuggling in closer, fingers lightly playing with Eliot’s chest hair. “It was something cracked open inside me and everything just leaked away. All I had to do was what you said. It was nice.”

Eliot’s throat hurts, a little, when he swallows. Pressure behind his eyes. Fuck. “It was really nice,” he agrees, and Quentin grins at him, easy. Has he even seen Q smile that easily, before?

“I didn’t expect you to be this cuddly,” Quentin mutters, but he accompanies it with a full body wriggle, like he can push his whole damn self into Eliot’s skin if he just tries hard enough. 

“Remind me to explain about aftercare later,” Eliot says fondly, reaching up to smooth his hand across Quentin’s face, stroke his hair. But the truth was Eliot, who kept people at arms length to survive, was as fucking hungry for touch as Quentin was. He knows himself well enough to know that. “You’re on an endorphin high right now, baby, and I need you to promise me if you start to feel bad about _any_ of this, you’ll let me know. I’m so proud of you, and I want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” Quentin promises, nuzzling his face against Eliot’s. 

Eliot, helpless, kisses him. “Promise me,” he prompts again, because it is _important_ , and he did a bad job of preparing Q for it. “Promise me.”

“I promise,” Quentin murmurs against his lips, laughing a little. Eliot just holds him close. 

Soon he’s going to want to roll Q over, rub medicated cream into his abused skin to help with the pain. He’s going to have to make sure they both get some water to drink, and make sure Q gets some sugar in him, and maybe also an ice pack to help things along. He’s going to have to figure out how to reconstruct the walls around his heart, or decide if he even wants to. Terrifyingly, he’s already thinking about _again_ , and _next time_ , and he thinks– maybe... Q is too.

He’s going to have to do all of those things, but for now, he just holds Quentin close, and carefully, slowly, lets himself start to come out of it. Quentin will be there to catch him, and Eliot trusts him to be gentle.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found as portraitofemmy on most places, but check out [twitter](https://twitter.com/portraitofemmy) and [tumblr](https://portraitofemmy.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading!


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